


The Price of Perfection

by songofthe52hertzwhale



Category: Dalton Academy Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 15:17:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18182267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofthe52hertzwhale/pseuds/songofthe52hertzwhale
Summary: Secondhand Lines takes a lot out of Julian





	The Price of Perfection

The cigarettes don’t bother him, at first. It’s almost exciting at the beginning, when he tastes those first notes of nicotine on his tongue. He feels older, looks like all the classic movie stars he admires — James Dean, River Phoenix, Marlon Brando. He stares at himself in the mirror, shoves his hands in the pockets of his worn out leather jacket as the cigarette rests loosely on his lower lip.

 

He looks the way people want him to. Standing here, in his dark jeans and motorcycle boots, his father’s old jacket around his shoulders. He’d been unable to sleep, the night before, his body wound too tight before the audition. It gives him deep circles under his eyes, the tired sort of look all the _bad boy_ actors seem to have. He purses his lips experimentally, tries to exhale in a way that makes him look cool.

 

He’s proud of himself, that he doesn’t cough the first time. The smoke doesn’t quite spiral from his mouth the way he wants, but he’ll get it with practice. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth, drops it into the sink in front of him.

 

It’s time.

 

He’ll show his father he’s the only one for this role. That he can handle anything, despite Travis’s doubts.

 

He can _do_ this.

 

Travis’s face is impossible to read as Julian performs. Thankfully, the others in the room show no such restraint. The producer looks _hungry_ , watching Julian speak. The writer is scrawling wildly in her notepad, her eyes shining brightly each time they dart up to Julian’s face. He finishes, panting, stares at his father and waits.

 

The trio before him leans in, whispers among themselves.

 

“Well,” Travis says, his face still lined with uncertainty, “I suppose we’ll have to give you a shot, son. Don’t let me down.”

 

He’s already read the script twice, of course, prior to the audition. But once he’s finally gotten his father’s approval, once his role is _official_ , he absolutely devours it. He reads it thrice more that week, highlights and scribbles notes in the margins until the words are barely legible. He makes notes of the physical descriptions of his character — words like _gaunt, emaciated, weary_. 

 

The screenwriter had given him her own notes, as well. He pores over them, reads them over and over until he _feels_ them. He’s not _Julian,_ anymore. He’s the character, the words on the page, the boy on screen.

 

He’s dieted for roles before, of course. He’s gained muscle, lost muscle, bulked up and thinned out. But this one is different than the rest. He hardly eats at all, in the lead-up to the first day of filming. The mostly-liquid diet drains his energy, but that just enforces the look even more. The dark circles under his eyes grow thicker, his cheekbones more prominent as the fat seeps from his body. 

 

The cigarettes help keep the hunger at bay. He’s lost count of how many he goes through each day, now, smokes until he can ignore the emptiness in his belly. His fingers smell like nicotine no matter how much soap he scrubs them with. The taste lingers in his mouth, even after he brushes his teeth.

 

He’s not sure he can pinpoint the moment it all turns on him.

 

He’s doing so _well_ , in the role. His father looks at him differently, has a distinct note of pride in his voice when he talks to others of Julian’s performance. Nearly every scene is completed in one take, and the critics are already buzzing with excitement over the film.

 

But it catches up with him, soon enough.

 

The first time he collapses on set, they all laugh it off. He’s been working too hard, they say, been pushing himself too much for the more emotional scenes. He’s sent to his hotel to recover, with strict orders to stay in bed. Room service delivers a platter full of food — breads and cheeses, a dish of olives and a pastry so rich he feels sick looking at it.

 

He manages three olives.

 

It’s not that he _means_ to starve himself, not today. He knows it’s not exactly healthy, how he’s been treating his body. If there’s any time to eat, it’s now.

 

But he can’t.

 

He barely has the energy to lift his hand to his mouth. His teeth ache as he chews. He pushes the tray aside, discards the food in favor of a few blessed hours of sleep. He can’t waste a day again. Tomorrow, he’ll finish his scenes, right on schedule.

 

The second, third, fourth times, he manages to wait until a scene wraps. He stumbles back to his trailer, prays he’ll make it to the couch before his vision blacks out. He does, half the time. It doesn’t take too long to recover — it’s the cigarettes that tide him over long enough to finish the day, he finds.

 

He starts to resent them.

 

He smokes even more on film than off, now. His character constantly has a smoke between his lips, and he finds himself going through two to three packs a day, depending on the schedule. The stench follows him around like a cloud, now. He can’t remember the smell of flowers, of fresh air, of coffee.

 

But he’s perfect.

 

He looks in the mirror, and he doesn’t see himself. It’s what every actor wants, what they all strive for. He’s turned into someone else entirely, transformed himself until he’s utterly unrecognizable. Even in his own clothes, wrapped in Dalton hoodies and loose sweatpants, he doesn’t look like _Julian Larson_. 

 

In another world, he may have felt proud of himself.

 

But he finds he doesn’t feel much at all, these days.

 

On the final day of filming, he gives it his all. He screams until his voice gives out, falls to his knees and sobs as fake rain drenches his skin.

 

They applaud him.

 

His father gives a speech, after, thanks the cast for all their hard work. To his son, he gives a tight smile.

 

“You did good,” he says, “I haven’t seen a performance like that, since…”

 

But he never does hear what comparison his father intended to make. His eyes roll back in his head, and he falls to the pavement. 

 

He’s lucky, they tell him later. He’d narrowly avoided cracking his skull, could have done some serious damage if he’d fallen just a few inches to the side. They make him stay in the hospital overnight, force an I.V. into his skin and food down his throat. 

 

He hates it.

 

He wants to go _home_ , wants to eat his own food and sleep in his own bed and scrub his skin until it _bleeds_ to get the godforsaken scent of smoke off his body. 

 

But when Carmen steps into the room, asks him where to book the flights to, it’s not Los Angeles that comes to mind.

 

They’ll be furious, he knows. Logan will yell and Derek will lecture, and they’ll both look at him with so much disappointment in their eyes he wants to run away. But they’ll help him.

 

They always do.

 

It’s not until the flight, until he’s leaning against the window on the plane back to Ohio, that he finally, _finally_ , rests.


End file.
